The Last Campaign
by Cropper
Summary: A dark look into Undersheriff Jeff McKeen's thoughts. McKeen character study.


Title: The Last Campaign

Author: Cropper

Rating: Mature for Language and Imagery.

Spoilers: Let's be safe and say everything up to and including "For Gedda"

Pairing: None, really. GSR is discussed. Grissom/McKeen/Team

Disclaimer: Don't own them. Never have, never will.

Summary: Just a tiny little peek into Undersheriff McKeen's thoughts

Author's Notes:

Many, many thanks to Smacky30 for the challenging me to write a story that is not all about Him! Him! Him!, the numerous head/sanity checks (which isn't always the easiest thing for either of us when I write something this dark) and her amazing beta efforts.

Cincoflex deserves a huge shout out as well, not only for her fantastic beta work but for also graciously allowing me to rummage through her cyber closet for a pair of shoes. Okay, so I took more than one. Just don't tell her, okay?

The ever-generous dreamsofhim made my beautiful banner. Isn't it spiffy? She is truly the master, the pimp mack mama.

Finally, and as always, a heart-felt nod to the Eejits. They might have had nothing to do with the actual writing of this story but they are always there and they always have my back.

_**If you are lost as in a dream and you cannot find your way  
All the reasons you are lost will guide you on your way  
If you turn them all to stars, across the milky way  
Truly they would make all the night as bright as day**_

"Hello, Gil. I'm delighted you finally decided to join me."

Undersheriff McKeen lounged patiently in a gray metal folding chair, his sneaker-clad feet propped atop a rickety, second-hand card table littered with official LVPD documents, crime scene photographs and carpentry tools. He folded his arms across his chest and admired his handiwork while watching his captive carefully. He wanted burn the image into his mind and always remember the look on Gil's face when the imperious Dr. Grissom finally realized he had been outsmarted and out-maneuvered.

McKeen had noticed a frown furrowing Grissom's when he spoke his name. Obviously, the man recognized his voice. Now he watched as Grissom blinked rapidly as if attempting to pinpoint the source of the voice. Focused as he was on his captive, McKeen knew the exact moment Grissom realized he was restrained. The look of confusion was replaced by one of pain and then by absolute panic. McKeen felt an intense satisfaction as the man finally began to comprehend the extent of his vulnerability.

"I was beginning to think my goons had been too rough and had permanently damaged you. And that would've been such a shame. We have so much to talk about."

"Now, now, no point in wasting your energy, Gil," McKeen chuckled as he watched Grissom struggle against his bonds. "You can't break the chains or pull the bolts from the floor. Larger, stronger men than you have tried and none have been successful. Plus, if you struggle too hard, you just might dislodge those wooden props beneath you arms and hang yourself. Go ahead, look up."

Grissom did as he was instructed and suddenly stopped moving. Even his breathing seemed to stop as the import of what he was seeing penetrated the fog around his brain.

McKeen was rather proud of his ingenuity. The noose around Grissom's neck was secured to a steel beam running the entire length of the warehouse. Because there was very little slack, the rope would tighten with even his slightest movement.

"That's right Gil," McKeen crooned, relishing the morbid comprehension he saw on Grissom's face. "You have about six inches of play in that line and are about eight inches from the floor. You're a smart man, you can do the math."

"Why?" The word rasped out from between parched lips.

"It's simple, really." His voice was kind and patient, as if explaining why the sky is blue or the grass is green to an inquisitive toddler. "You're breathing down my neck, Gil. You're getting too close. I have worked too long and too hard to have you ruin everything now." Shrugging his shoulders and extending his hands in a conciliatory gesture, he added, "I assure you this is nothing personal. In many ways I respect and admire you. But, you need to be eliminated before you find something or someone that will expose everything I have done. The election is two days away and I fully intend to become the next Sheriff of Clark County."

"No. Why?" Grissom's voice was stronger this time, the words clearer.

McKeen cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. "Why did I cross the line, so to speak?"

Seeing Grissom's faint nod the Undersheriff responded, "That is a very long story. Lucky for you, we have nothing but time."

"I wasn't always like this, you know," he began thoughtfully, shifting in his chair to get more comfortable. "When I entered the police academy, I was idealistic, just like you. I thought justice would always prevail and spending my days chasing down and locking up scumbags would actually make difference…would turn the world into a safe and happy place. My goal was to be the best cop this city had ever seen." He chuffed a bitter laugh and shook his head ruefully. "I was such a sanctimonious jackass back then."

"However, things changed. I began to see the futility of swimming against the tide and wallowing in the sewage every night. I realized I was nothing more than an insignificant piece of shit trying to cling to the side of the bowl while the water swirled around me, pulling me a little lower, a little deeper every single day."

"My transfer to Internal Affairs was a blessing. I began to see a way out of all the ugliness, or rather how to make all of that misery and suffering work to my advantage. I knew there were dirty cops, there are always dirty cops no matter where you go, but until then that's all they were – dirty filthy cops. They were beneath contempt and went against everything I once believed in."

"After a while I realized I could buy the allegiance of these scumbags in uniform if I would just fudge their incident reports and label stone cold murders as righteous shootings so they could keep their jobs and support their pathetic families. I began to build a small force of soldiers from these officially sanctioned thugs. From there, I was able to infiltrate the power brokers, legitimate and criminal. The rest, as they say, is history."

McKeen gave an innocent shrug and smiled pleasantly at his captive. He wanted Gil to understand what had happened and what had caused him to choose a darker path. One look at Grissom's expression, however, quickly eroded all vestiges of civility from his attempted rationalization.

"How dare you look at me like that," McKeen snarled, spittle flying from his mouth, as he jumped to his feet. His hands balled into fists and his eyes narrowing dangerously as he glared at the man chained against the wall. "How dare you regard _me_ as you would one of your low-life suspects, as if I'm something you can't wait to scrape off the bottom of your shoe." The tenor and volume of his tirade grew with every word, spurred on by the sarcastic lift of Grissom's eyebrow. "I see the loathing and disgust in your eyes and I deserve far better from you. I AM far better than you. I am more powerful than you could ever hope to be. I deserve your respect, your admiration, not your sneering contempt!"

Silence weighed heavily in the gloomy warehouse as both men scowled, each waiting for the other to give in and back down. McKeen noted with some satisfaction that Grissom was not as calm and unaffected by his predicament as his stoic demeanor might suggest. Dark sweat stains were starting to show against the light blue fabric of his dress shirt and his hands were constantly clenching and relaxing, as if he was using the rhythm to help keep his panic under control.

"Respect must be earned, Jeff," Grissom countered softly, his words stirring the oppressive stillness that had descended upon the two men. "It is not something that can be bought."

McKeen dismissed the words with an impatient wave of his hand. Taking a seat once again, he said, "Look at yourself, Gil. Take a good long look." The fake smile he pasted on his face did not quite reach his eyes as he began to taunt Grissom. "You've given so much of yourself to your profession, much more than I ever did and where has it gotten you? I've managed to skate by, just going through the motions and playing the game and have amassed a damn impressive reputation. On paper, I am the epitome of law and order. Jeff McKeen, the only man who can clean up Las Vegas. Once I figured out how to manipulate the system, the job became nothing more than the means to an end. I put just enough of myself into my work to keep up appearances and relied on cunning and cash for everything else. I'd say that I've gotten the better end of the deal."

"Look where I am and look where you are…putting aside the obvious, of course. We'll pretend for a few moments that you're here simply because I invited you. Yeah, let's imagine that we're sitting in a sleazy little diner somewhere; just two colleagues having a chat over a plate of runny eggs and several cups of very strong coffee."

McKeen closed his eyes and allowed his head to loll back. His face shone with blissful remembrance and he rubbed his hands together, temporarily dismissing Grissom and the warehouse in order to mentally savor his imaginary breakfast. "Mmmm…I can almost smell it, a fresh pot of coffee, that dark, rich roast only a diner ever seems to have. The warm toast, those little butter pats slowly melting…"

_**Children come and children go, they're not children any more**_

_**And all I have are photographs, I've got hundreds on my door**_

_**And if I turned them all to stars, across the milky way**_

_**Truly they would make all the night as bright as day**_

_**Truly they would make all the night as bright as day**_

"Has it been worth it, Gil?" the Undersheriff asked, straightening suddenly and arching an eyebrow at Grissom as he struggled to pull on a pair of rubber yellow kitchen gloves. Catching the look of apprehension on the chained man's face, McKeen flashed his brightest false smile, the same fake, toothy grin that adorned his campaign posters.

"Do you like my gloves?" he asked, holding his hands up with a flourish for Grissom's inspection. "Bloodstains are a bitch to get out in the wash and I would hate to ruin my favorite sweatshirt with some unsightly spatter."

"What about your conscience?" Grissom asked quietly. McKeen heard the dread in his voice and smiled slightly as Gil continued. "Aren't you worried about my blood staining that?"

McKeen's bone-chilling laugh sliced through the stagnant air. "I thought you had it all figured out by now, Gil. I have no conscience."

He cocked his head and regarded his prisoner for a moment, the look of terror creeping into Grissom's eyes, the sweat beading along his hairline and running freely down his cheeks, before reaching up to stroke a rubber-encased finger along the side of Grissom's beard. McKeen grasped a bit of scruff between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing the fine bristles lightly between the two as he continued his questioning in a voice all the more frightening for its lack of emotion, "But you do. Tell me, has it all been it worth it? Has it been worth all of the heartache and suffering and loss of faith in your fellow man?"

Releasing Grissom's beard with an eye-watering yank, McKeen strode to the table. He snatched an item from the haphazard pile atop the scarred surface and whirled, flashing a photograph under Grissom's nose. Gone was the calm façade he had managed to maintain throughout his monologue; the chilling serenity of his public face now replaced by blazing anger and cunning madness.

"**WARRICK BROWN!**," he shouted, his voice suddenly booming, "Was HE worth it? He was your right hand, the one you groomed to take over. Was his death worth your insatiable quest for justice?"

"You killed Warrick, I didn't, Grissom rasped."

"Oh, but you _did_, Gil," oozed McKeen, that slick, oily film coating his voice once again. "If you hadn't trained him so well and infused your own high-minded ideals into him he would have washed out long ago; another weak bastard consumed by addiction. But no, you took him and molded him and trained him. Without you there would have been no incident with Lou Gedda, no Warrick Brown vowing to find justice for some damn, dead stripper…." His words trailed off and McKeen shook his head ruefully, a hint of sadness creeping over his features before his face and voice hardened again. "He traded his life for a two-bit slut."

McKeen positioned Warrick's autopsy photograph over Grissom's right wrist and raised the nail gun into position.

"**WAS HE WORTH IT?**" McKeen screamed in Grissom's face as he depressed the trigger and nailed the photo into place. Blood spurted; Grissom gave a sharp cry of pain as the heavy galvanized spike drove through the bones of his right wrist and pinned him to the wall.

McKeen snatched the rest of the photos from the table and shoved them in Grissom's face. One by one McKeen nailed Grissom's friends, his family, to his outstretched arms, asking each time if that friend was worth it, if that person was truly worth all of the pain and suffering they had caused on a personal and professional level. Nick, Catherine, Greg – each member of his team was punctuated by another thunk from the heavy nail gun, another point driven home through cartilage and bone and sinew.

"Now, where should we put this one? Sara Sidle." He held the last photo up for Grissom to see before taking another look for himself. "Is she a sweet fuck? I can't really blame you for thinking with your dick here, Gil. I wouldn't mind having a piece of that myself." His tone was mild, as if discussing the weather and not Sara's sexual attributes. "I'll bet she _is_ sweet, isn't she. And slick. And hot." McKeen closed his eyes and rubbed his hand along the fly of his faded jeans.

Grissom strained against the nails holding him to the wall. "Leave her out of this," he ground out, his jaw clenched in anger. "She has nothing to do with this."

McKeen laughed darkly, raising a hand to pat Grissom on the cheek. "I'm sure she's heard by now that you're missing," he whispered conspiratorially. "Think she's worried? I'll bet she's right here in Vegas looking for you. Maybe I should call one of my thugs and have her delivered to me right now. I can handcuff her and fuck her right here on the floor in front of you."

"You lay one hand on her and I'll **KILL** you," Grissom yelled, redoubling his efforts to free himself. He fought so furiously that he managed to free his right hand and forearm with a sickening sound of wet tendon ripping, only to be stopped short from reaching his goalby the chain still shackled around his wrist.

McKeen blanched as Grissom's wrist came free from the wall with a wet, crunching pop and watched in morbid fascination as the photograph of Warrick floated to the ground. He regarded Gil with a look of awe and surprise.

"Wow, Gil. Such emotion," he said, a touch of wonder coloring his voice. "I wasn't expecting that sort of reaction from you. And here I thought you were just using her to get your rocks off. Hell, If I didn't know any better I'd almost think you actually love the little tramp."

"I knew it," McKeen crowed triumphantly as Grissom's gaze dropped to the floor. "I've known for years that Sidle is your weak spot. I just didn't realize HOW blinded you were until now."

He scooped the photo of Warrick up from the pitted concrete, taking a moment to study the fresh blood droplets marring the dead man's face. He traced them absently with his index finger while clicking his tongue against his teeth in disapproval. "Now look what you've done." McKeen shook his head and sighed sadly as he pinned Grissom's wrist against the wall and held the picture in place once again. "We'll just have to put it back where it belongs," he muttered mostly to himself as he pulled the trigger and shot the nail home once more.

Ignoring his victim's low anguished moan, McKeen shifted his stance, leaning directly into Grissom's face. "I hope she's worth it, Gil," he whispered into Grissom's ear.

Grissom's chest heaved beneath the Undersheriff's touch. "She is," he rasped, face pale and damp. "She's worth everything."

"Really," McKeen drawled, his dubious tone matching his look of skepticism. "This little whore has dragged you through hell and back. Is any piece of pussy worth all of that? You brought her here to work with you. You exposed her to all of these horrors. You watched her break little by little until she finally left and broke you. Is she worth it? Is she really worth all of this?"

McKeen dropped the nail gun to the floor and strode briskly to the card table to grab a heavy-duty staple gun. Returning to stand once more before Grissom he hissed, "I am going to place Sara right over your heart since that's where you seem to think she belongs. And I am going to use a staple this time," he said, positioning the gun just to the left of Grissom's sternum, fumbling a bit to find a crease between the ribs. "I can't risk the nail shattering one of your ribs and sending a bone shard into your heart. I don't want you to die just yet. We still have so much more to talk about."

--

McKeen removed the noose from around Grissom's neck and, grabbing him by the chin, slammed his head back against the rough-hewn planks of the wooden wall, forcing him to make eye contact. The agonized confusion he saw as Grissom struggled to focus pleased him and he allowed himself a satisfied smirk. "I'm waiting, Gil. I really want to know if any of them were worth it?"

Busying himself by reaching into his front pocket, the Undersheriff fished out a simple tarnished key and slowly unlocked and discarded the shackles around Grissom's wrists. The iron restraints clattered loudly as they jangled to rest on the concrete floor, their metallic echo lingering and dancing with newly stirred dust motes before fading into the surrounding silence.

Grissom grunted as the Undersheriff kicked away the wooden props under his arms and his weight shifted downward exerting more pressure on his shoulders and chest. With the removal of the shackles and props, all that remained to hold him against the wall were the heavy-duty industrial nails McKeen had used in his picture-hanging exercise. He still had the milk crate beneath his feet for balance and support but the heavy plastic container did little to alleviate the new stresses that had been placed on his chest.

"Yes, Jeff," he managed to croak, struggling against the pain. "They were…are…worth it, all of it." He paused to draw a shuddering breath before continuing. "Ask any of them and they'll tell you the same. They're still here, still fighting, just like me."

McKeen snorted a derisive chuckle. "Except Mr. Brown."

"Except Warrick," spat Grissom, contempt curling his lips into a sneer. "Because _you_ murdered him. _You_ shot him down in cold blood. You tell _me_, was it worth it?"

_**And if all the hearts that the spirit loves were standing side by side  
They would be forever long, and ten thousand miles wide  
Turn them all to stars, across the milky way  
Truly they would make all the night as bright as day  
Truly they would make all the night as bright as day**_

McKeen snapped his cell phone closed and sighed. "That was my wife. We rarely speak anymore and when we do, all she does is nag, nag nag." He threw his hands towards the ceiling as he started to pace back and forth, gesturing wildly as his agitation grew. "Does it really matter to her where I am right now?" He scoffed a laugh and rolled his eyes. "She couldn't care less where I am, what I'm doing or who I'm doing it with."

He stopped suddenly, the crazed pacing coming to an abrupt halt as he looked up at Grissom. "You know," he murmured, a touch of wistfulness in his voice, "She used to care. She used to worry about me. She used to sit up and wait for me late at night to make sure everything was okay. I wonder when she stopped. I really don't remember…."

As quickly as it had appeared, the elusive moment of self-realization passed, hardening McKeen's features and infusing a razor-sharp edge to his tone. "So I told her, just for fun. What the hell do I care if she knows I'm hanging out here in this warehouse? Who is she going to tell? The cat? It will drive her absolutely crazy trying to figure out what I'm up to."

Grissom shrugged reflexively and then winced as the nails tightened and blood dripped from his wounds. "I like Rosalyn. She has always been very pleasant to me."

"You don't live with her, Gil," McKeen scolded darkly. "She is nothing more than an unrepentant, greedy shrew."

Catching the look of puzzlement on Grissom's face, McKeen sighed.

"Back when I first met her, six months or so before I entered the Academy, she wasn't like she is now." His eyes grew moist as he thought back, remembering the happy years, the passionate years, when his marriage was good and people were honest and he still believed he could actually make a difference, could change things for the better. "She was totally different, so much softer. The years have hardened her."

"You were different, too, Jeff," Grissom reminded him with a touch of sympathy in his voice.

He nodded, absently acknowledging the validity of Grissom's statement. "Life was so…simple back then. We had no real goals or expectations other than to love each other and make each other happy. That's all that really mattered, living in the moment and being good to each other. We were both so very different from who we have become."

"What happened?" Grissom asked softly, shifting slightly, trying to lessen the tension on his arms.

"Everything. Nothing. I don't know," came the pensive, whispered response.

"I TOLD you," McKeen began, closing his eyes as he attempted to make sense of his shattered marriage, "my ambitions, worldview, sense of right and wrong – all of them changed and I just rolled with the flow. I was willing to do anything necessary to get where I wanted - no, _needed_ - to be. Somewhere along the line Roslyn's morals slipped as well, I guess, since she really had no choice but to go along for the ride. I needed her, too, the beautiful, graceful wife hanging on my arm and my every word for the sake of appearances, smiling at me, acting like we were still hopelessly in love any time we made a public appearance. Every politician must have a perfect spouse in order to be successful because it instills confidence in the voters. She understood her role and played it to perfection."

He seemed to forget all about Grissom and the warehouse as he talked, speaking more to himself as he continued to relate the story of his broken marriage.

"For a long time I thought I was damn good at hiding everything from her but the truth is, she is the biggest mistake I ever made. I underestimated her own cunning and drive and failed to realize she was a better investigator than I could ever hope to be. Her reasoning was wrong, she thought I was having an affair, but she learned how to track me. She made her own contacts and before long knew everything.

"With that knowledge came tremendous power. She controls the purse strings and runs the household. We sleep in separate bedrooms because she demands it and really only see each other at social functions. She has developed an obsession for Astrabellas and other assorted expensive trappings. I can't even begin to tell you how many pairs of shoes and matching handbags she owns."

"I am in too deep and she knows too much. Divorcing her would be tantamount to suicide. I suck it up and bankroll her shopping sprees and she keeps her mouth shut. What started as a passionate love affair has slowly evolved into nothing more than a marriage of convenience. I might have to arrange for her to have a traffic accident soon. A fatal one, I think."

McKeen seemed to run out of gas as he finished. He stared at his hands and fiddled with the hem of his sweatshirt, lost momentarily in half-remembered visions of earlier, easier times.

"Jeff?" Grissom's voice was hoarse, a sure sign the persistent pain and exhaustion was taking a toll on his waning strength. "You no longer have a marriage, and you have no family. You have many associates and colleagues, none of whom you trust, but that's it. You have no friends, just a long list of enemies. Other than yourself, who _do_ you have?"

McKeen started at the sound of Grissom's voice. He had slipped within himself during his soliloquy and had allowed himself to get caught up in the power and emotion of the painful memories. He gave a quick shake of his head, banishing those thoughts to a darker corner of his mind and returned his attention to Grissom's labored words.

"I have accomplished something that generations of mobsters could only dream of. When the dust settles two days from now, I will OWN this entire city. Vegas is mine. Hell, all of Clark County is mine.

"I already own the crooks. By sunset Tuesday I will also own the cops, the courts and City Hall. All of those candidates on the ballot? The front-runners and those predicted to win by a landslide? All mine. They are all hand-picked worthless flunkies whose ruthless ambition and greed far surpasses any talent or integrity they might possess.

"Not everyone is like you, Gil. Maybe if more people were, neither of us would be here having this conversation. But, I have discovered that everyone can be bought if you dangle the right price tag. Everyone except you, it seems. And while I do admire that on some level, I can't help but laugh at your short-sightedness. Or would it be foolishness?"

McKeen smirked in response to Grissom's half-cocked eyebrow. "As long as money and power exist, hearts and souls will always be for sale." He chuffed a soft laugh as Grissom expended what little energy he had left shaking his head violently in disagreement.

"Now that you know precisely who I have, I think the better question is who do _you_ have, Gil? Who are all of these other bleeding hearts who are going to stand up for truth and justice when I offer a much easier path?"

"They're right here," Grissom said, using his chin to point to the photographs. "And there are others just like them, people who'd rather fight you than sell their souls, people who can't be bought no matter how hard you try."

"You're wrong, dead wrong. You have no one. By cutting off the head, I have killed the dog. You are a dinosaur and you are now extinct."

"Goodbye, Gil. You've been a worthy adversary but it's time for me to go. I have a city to run. We'll see if your team deserves the amount of faith you have in them. We'll see if they find you in time to save you. After all, what else can free you from a crucifixion but faith?"

McKeen kicked the crate out from under Grissom's feet before heading towards the door, taking great pleasure in the strangled cry of pain that escaped his adversary's clenched jaws as the downward slump of his body was stopped by the nails that held him arms firmly to the wall.

He walked away, pausing with his hand on the doorknob for one final look. Grissom hung silently, head bowed, chin touching his chest as he strained to draw breath. McKeen did not know whether his fallen enemy was merely accepting his fate or praying for deliverance. Whatever Grissom was doing, it was too little too late. McKeen had learned the hard way that there was no such thing as salvation; there was just dog eat dog and kill or be killed. The law of the neon jungle was what Vegas was all about.

He watched for another long moment before slipping out the door, shooting Grissom a nod of grudging admiration as he left and disappeared into the pre-dawn darkness.

_**The light that shines in your true love's eyes, also shines in you  
If we would only let it shine, the promise would come true  
You could turn us all to stars, across the milky way  
Truly they would make all the night as bright as day**_

Brass and Catherine entered the modest home skirting the edges of Vegas' wealthier neighborhoods. The house, a bit too large and showy for its lot, echoed the ambitions of its owners; a lovely white-columned brick house with gleaming floors and chandeliers and ornately framed prints of lesser-known artists that could never hope to outshine the statelier monied mansions a few short blocks away. It was a modest dwelling nestled snuggly in a neighborhood for the wanna-bes and also rans, for the pretenders and those who would never quite make it.

The illusion of perfection in this particular home was shattered the moment the officers crossed the threshold into the kitchen. Roslyn McKeen sat at the polished oaken table, her lavender silk robe cinched tightly about her waist as she gazed blankly at the sunrise through the French doors along the far wall. Catherine and Brass could do little more than gape in fascinated horror at the kaleidoscope of blood, bone and gray matter splashed over the floor and ceiling of the otherwise spotless kitchen.

McKeen was slumped across the table from his wife, his eyes lifeless, body slack with death. Catherine approached and gingerly moved his head aside, the familiar features all but obliterated from the blast of the self-inflicted gunshot through the roof of his mouth. He had fallen to rest upon the front page of the Sunday Journal-Times and Catherine could barely read the banner headline through the pools of blood saturating the newsprint. She nodded with satisfaction and understanding as she made out the words:

**TOP SECRET FEDERAL PROBE ENDS WITH INDICTMENTS:**

**UNDERSHERIFF McKEEN TO BE CHARGED WITH MURDER, KIDNAPPING, EXTORTION AND RACKETEERING**

Beneath the headline was an old file photo of McKeen and Grissom leaving the courthouse several years earlier. "You go, Gil," Catherine whispered. "You finally nailed the bastard."

"Did you find him?"

Catherine jumped slightly at the sound of Roslyn's voice. Her eyes were as dead as those of her husband as she waited patiently for an answer.

"Yeah, we found him," replied Catherine, reaching across the table to grasp the other woman's hand. "Thank you."

Roslyn nodded once, a short quick acknowledgement of Catherine's words.

"Then it's done. It's finally over…for good."

--

Nick and Greg raced through the warehouse door behind the SWAT team, guns drawn and flashlights sweeping through the gloom. Sara pushed past them and raced towards the figure she had seen briefly in the sweeping arc of light. Both men stood rooted to their spot just inside the door as the officers continued to clear the area, stunned and sickened by the sight before them. The pleading look Sara shot over her shoulder finally stirred them into action and they raced across the filthy scarred concrete to help.

Nick slid his arms around Grissom's waist and gently eased him upwards to alleviate the horrible pressure constricting his chest. Greg found the wooden props and secured them under Grissom's arms while Sara slid the milk crate back into place. Once satisfied that Grissom was secure and breathing easier, Greg scooted around the card table and grabbed the folding chair for Sara to stand on. He and Nick then backed away, giving Sara and Grissom some privacy. Nick grabbed his cell phone and called for a paramedic team.

Sara ran her hands through her lover's sweat-drenched hair, softly whispering his name until he slowly started to revive. She stroked his beard and pressed gentle kisses along his jaw line as his finally opened and he began to focus on his surroundings. Grissom stared at her for a long moment, trying to discern if she was merely an illusion or if his faith had truly been rewarded. One more soft kiss, this one on his cracked and parched lips, convinced him that she was real.

He closed his eyes again and his features tightened in concentration. The question that emerged was more a forced exhalation that an actual word.

"H-h-how?"

"Shhh…" Sara began in an attempt to shush him. There would be plenty of time for conversation later. "The same way you finally got McKeen. His wife turned on him."

"No," he managed with a slight shake of his head. "How?"

"Nicky called me. I caught the first flight out."

Grissom's features relaxed a little more, the pain and shock lulling him back into blissful oblivion. "McKeen?"

"He's gone, Gris. He blew his brains out all over the headlines of the morning paper."

Grissom just gave a tiny nod, a sad little smile forming at her words. He tried to say something else but Sara silenced him with the light touch of her fingers on his lips. "Shhhhh. Whatever it is, it'll wait. Save your strength."

"Over?"

"Yeah, it's over. You did it, Gris, you found justice for Warrick. And now you can finally rest."

"For good," he said, his eyes peeking open again to watch her reaction to his words.

"Yeah, for good." A slow grin slipped across her face. "We have a lot of living to do."

T_**ruly as the sun**_

_**Truly as the rain**_

_**Truly I believe**_

_**That it was the Last Campaign**_

_**"Across the Milky Way" – Words and Music by John Stewart**_

_**"The Last Campaign" – Words and Music by John Stewart**_


End file.
